Thoughts, 1.

The lawless ballet of chaos and ecstasy taste like liquor and your sweat.
Are we Primal and unreserved or do we tussle and tumble, writhing into each other along a schematic carved by something bigger than both of us...



Revelations, 1.

No, I've decided we're most certainly animals, fucking up a storm and stealing bread we don't need.

You're stoned and I'm drunk, and we're both soaking in an oil black tub planning the next hit.



Thoughts, 2a.

There must be a rhythm to the way the leaves scrape against the molded bent edges of sectioned sidewalks and along almost-blue gutters.

The wind, you told me once, the trick is in the wind. Do you understand?

No, I slurred.

You always got so profound with Colombian snow in your veins. I just got drunk.



Thoughts, 2b.

How can you be so ugly and look so damned good?

Your eyes tell me you wonder the same about me everyday.



Revelations, 2a.

I woke up in the Godless hours when the streets are dying and the only mourners are wearing torn army jackets and weeks of stubble. I must have blacked out. You must be in the backseat of a car, making deals with strangers who remind you of your dad for some reason.

I took a walk, or rather I tore myself down the alley and to the road.

And I crossed the middle of Valley, crashing lost leaves like glass against foreheads.

They were born, the leaves, in some nameless soil, and they lived and they died and they were dragged away across all this time and space to the middle of this street and the bottom of my boots. And now you can't tell the brown scraps of paper rambling away were ever anything other than dust.

You told me the secret was in the wind, and that's it I guess. The leaves were here because of the wind, and the wind was here because of the sun, and the sun was here because of sustained reactions of gas, and the gas is here because once upon a time there was a big bang, and the big bang happened because who knows what.

That was the pattern, some kind of proxy fate where all things are intrinsically dependent upon a previous event. If I were an educated man I might know the name of this idea, but I'm just a drunk.

And you're just a scared little girl hiding things from yourself.



Revelations, 2b.

What was our pattern?

Where do the cigarette burns on my back and the belt-buckle scars on my thighs fit in? What rain-tracks did I chase along the muddy hill, or who was it that pushed me down the slope? Maybe all I'm meant to know is this: I woke up from the fall and found myself drunk again, in the dark, looking for you.

And you, you never had scars to speak of so you made them yourself. On your arms, your legs, in your veins. You told me once that you hate men with mustaches, that if I ever grew one you would leave me. Then why do you always pick up men with mustaches and fuck them for money; for another hit?

And why is it that in the only photo you ever kept of your dad he had thick auburn whiskers under a broken drunks nose?

I guess we both just got stormy winds, and you can't even tell we used to be beautiful green leaves dancing in the summer.